Mike Maden: Drone Threat

It was also a mark for death.

Their truck sped past still more utility poles with a Christian corpse hanging from each, their sightless, downcast eyes keeping silent vigil over their lost village. The long shadows they cast were quickly fading in the dimming light. It would soon be time for the brothers to wash for evening prayers.

If only these Christians had submitted , Ahmed thought. Submitted to the will of Allah and signed the dhimma contract and paid the jizya —perhaps that would have kept them from death. Easier still, they could have just lied to save their lives and fight another day. Was taqiyya not permitted in their book as well?

He liked this village. It was neat and well organized and surrounded by fertile fields. A village not much different from the one he came from in Normandy. He wondered how soon before those utility poles back home would be filled with Crusader corpses, too. He hoped he would live long enough to see it and to see even the whole world under the great Caliphate of God.

Inshallah .

The pickup skidded to a stop in front of the church guarded by two jihadis, an almond-eyed Kazakh and a graying Uzbek. Both good fighters, Ahmed knew. And zealous.

Ahmed leaped out of the truck bed and the Dodge sped off. Ahmed stood a moment, unsure of his situation. Had he sinned? The commander’s zeal for God knew no bounds. Just last week he punished a brother who kept smoking cigarettes in secret. Sharia forbade it. Smoking was haram . “There are no secrets here. God knows all and he will not honor us if we don’t keep his law,” al-Medina proclaimed before personally delivering the forty lashes to the brother’s back with a thick leather whip.

Ahmed weighed his chances against the two guards. There were no bullets in his battered rifle and his RPG had no grenade — not that he could’ve used either in close-quarters combat. He had his grandfather’s old folding knife in his pocket, but that wasn’t much of a weapon, either. Both guards were well armed and could kill with their hands. He’d seen it himself. Perhaps he could run, but then they would shoot him in the back like a dog.

The Uzbek nodded a dour greeting and pushed open one of the two front doors and signaled him to follow.

Ahmed hesitated before the open door. He hadn’t stood in a Christian church since he was a child — his first communion. The small stone church in his village had long since been abandoned by the last Catholic faithful and converted into a bike shop. Still, he wondered what judgment might be waiting for him inside this holy place after a day of slaughter. The sun had fallen beneath the hills and the long shadows had given way to a general gloom.

“He’s waiting for you,” the Uzbek said. “Follow me.”

Inshallah , Ahmed said to himself again with a shrug. He followed the Uzbek in. The old fighter limped heavily on his left foot into the broad expanse of the sanctuary and down the rows of mostly empty pews. The aisles were littered with chunks of broken plaster, half-melted candles, torn hymnals, and spent cartridges. A few of the brothers were passed out on the long benches, snoring from exhaustion. Three unit subcommanders stood on the raised platform and used a communion table to study a map they had laid upon it. A few dim bulbs in a chandelier overhead threw a sickly yellow light around them. A black ISIS flag hung from the rafters.

Ahmed’s eyes drifted to the smashed ceramic Christ crunching beneath their feet, broken into a dozen pieces and tossed like garbage around the floor. This pleased him. A false Christ these kafir worship, and an idol at that.

The Uzbek led Ahmed to another door to the side of the sanctuary. He knocked on it. “Enter!” boomed from the other side. Ahmed recognized al-Medina’s commanding voice.

The Uzbek nodded curtly to Ahmed, then hobbled away.

Ahmed took a deep breath, then pushed open the door.

Kamal al-Medina sat behind a small wooden desk, and his two senior commanders sat on a worn leather couch against one wall near him. The room was spacious and lined with crowded bookshelves. A small side table was dedicated to framed photographs of the pastor, his wife, and three children. The wife was stunning. This must have been the pastor’s office, Ahmed concluded.

“Brother Ahmed!” Al-Medina stood. A wide grin spread beneath his dark, wooly beard. His lieutenants rose as well, also smiling.

Al-Medina came around from behind the desk and wrapped Ahmed in a bear hug. The other two commanders did likewise.

“Emir?” was all Ahmed could muster in his confusion.

Al-Medina laughed and spoke to him in French. “No need for the formalities. We’re all brothers here, yes?”

Ahmed nodded, tried to answer him in faltering Arabic. Al-Medina held up a hand.

“I attended a private school in Switzerland, so French is no problem for me. But we can speak English or German if you prefer.”

“I like, eh, want the language of the Prophet, peace be upon him,” Ahmed insisted in broken Arabic.

“But I prefer to practice my French, if you don’t mind,” al-Medina insisted.

“Ça va,” Ahmed said.

“Excellent! Can I get you something to drink? Water, coffee?”

“No, sir. I’m fine. How can I be of service?”

Al-Medina clapped him hard on the shoulder. “You already have, my young lion. I heard what you did yesterday.” Al-Medina pantomimed holding an RPG on his shoulder and firing it. “You killed those three Iraqis barricaded in the house, firing their machine gun. They had the front echelon pinned down with their murderous weapon. But you jumped into the street and put a HEAT round right into their window. BOOM!”

Al-Medina clapped his hands when he said the word and laughed. The others laughed, too.

Al-Medina switched back to Arabic. “You saved many brothers that day. I just wanted to take the time now to properly thank you, and to reward you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, a little,” Ahmed said, embarrassed by his poor Arabic skills.

Al-Medina signaled with his hand. “Follow me.”

Al-Medina led Ahmed and the other commanders to an adjoining room. Stacks of American rifles, grenade launchers, ammo boxes, and even fresh Iraqi uniforms still in their plastic bags lined the walls.

“Take your pick. All courtesy of the United States government,” al-Medina said with another laugh.

“For me? Anything? Truly?” In his excitement, Ahmed fell back into his French. He snatched up a brand-new M-4 carbine still glistening with lubricant.

“Anything you need or want.” Al-Medina opened up a box. “Here, brand-new boots if you need them.”

“Boots!” Ahmed set his new weapon down and raced over to the box of boots and began sifting through them, looking for his size.

“But there’s something more for our young hero,” one of the commanders said, chuckling.

“Ah, yes. I almost forgot,” al-Medina said through a wide grin.

Ahmed looked up.

“Come, boy. Something better indeed.”

The other men laughed.

Al-Medina led the nineteen-year-old to yet another door that opened to a great room. A dozen women sat cowering on the floor, their faces covered by hijabs. But their downcast eyes told all, dazed and red with tears. Some were even blackened.

“Take one.”

“Sir?”

Al-Medina shouted an order. The women all jumped to their feet as one, startled by the harshness of his voice. They immediately pulled off their hijabs. Some were younger than Ahmed. Two were blond. Al-Medina saw Ahmed’s gaze fall on one particular girl a few years older than he. Her dark blue eyes were wide with terror. She covered her bruised mouth with one trembling hand.